


Drinker of Dreams

by Lynchy8



Series: Fun (and sad!) little drabbles [25]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Masturbation, PWP, Smut, bottom!jolras, grantaire's bottle, kink meme prompt, sort of, top!taire, with a bottle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-04 20:26:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3087986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lynchy8/pseuds/Lynchy8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the Kink Meme: "Enjolras masturbates by fucking himself with R's bottle. Grantaire finds him and is more than happy to replace it with his cock."</p><p>  <i>How had it come to this point?</i></p><p>  <i>With Grantaire staring at him, wide-eyed; his twisted mouth - normally so full of barbed words - now empty and open in an almost comical manner.</i></p><p>  <i>As for himself, he was too far gone to care, to even blush at the situation. The sweat was hot on the back of his neck and his curls clung to his forehead. All the muscles in his stomach were clenched tight and he was so close, so damn close. All Enjolras could do was exhale, eyes fluttering closed.</i></p><p>  <i>Rewind.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Drinker of Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> I was perusing the kink meme looking for a possible prompt and 2000 words were already down before I realised the OP asked for Canon era so I'm really sorry OP, I hope this is ok.
> 
> I honestly can't tell if this is crack or not. (yeah I'm really selling this to you) and it hasn't been beta'd and I can't quite believe I'm putting my name to it but here we go.
> 
> Consent is mentioned explicitly and there aren't any other tags that I'm aware of although, as always, if anyone would like me to tag something please give me a shout and I'll be happy to do so.
> 
> EDIT: I posted this at stupid o'clock this morning and was feeling quite grumpy (can you tell) on reflection I'm quite pleased to put my name to it. Enjoy the smut!

How had it come to this point?

With Grantaire staring at him, wide-eyed; his twisted mouth - normally so full of barbed words - now empty and open in an almost comical manner.

As for himself, he was too far gone to care, to even blush at the situation. The sweat was hot on the back of his neck and his curls clung to his forehead. All the muscles in his stomach were clenched tight and he was so close, so damn close. All Enjolras could do was exhale, eyes fluttering closed.

Rewind.

Enjolras had long-since come to terms with the name he gasped when he spent over his own hand. He knew how it sounded as he tugged himself to completion, when he had three fingers buried inside himself, and when he gasped beneath the flow of water in the shower, one hand slapping against the cold tiles at the rush of electricity down his spine. The owner of that name had held his attention for all sorts of reasons; on reflection it wasn’t all that strange for that to translate into Enjolras’s more private moments.

He knew how to play his body like a finely tuned instrument; knew just where to press, how to twist his hands, how to build that boiling feeling in his guts until he leapt off the cliff, letting his orgasm wash over him. These days, his mind seemed to focus on what Grantaire’s fingers might feel like; would they be brisk and rough, thrusting in firmly and with intent, forcing Enjolras to come by mercilessly teasing his prostate. Or perhaps they would be tender and careful, their artistry and magic drawing Enjolras out until he was a screaming, writhing mess, his face pressed into the pillows as he begged for more. Enjolras still wasn’t sure what his favourite fantasy was. 

And therein lay the problem; fantasy. They were Enjolras’s fingers, not Grantaire’s. It was his own hand fisted round his cock. When he whispered, shouted or moaned Grantaire’s name, there was no answering voice.

But it was fine. It was the privacy of his mind and troubled nobody. 

That evening found Enjolras’s living room full of his friends. Not a meeting, exactly. More of an impromptu gathering. Enjolras suspected Courfeyrac as the guilty party, but he couldn’t mind. Not when there was so much chatter and happiness. 

Over at the dining table, Joly was entertaining Bossuet and Grantaire with stories. Bossuet’s explosive snort of laughter cut across the room, but Enjolras would be lying if he blamed it for his distraction. For some minutes (and he really hoped no one had noticed) his attention had been drawn to Grantaire’s hands. The man was doodling which was entirely unfair. Every so often Grantaire looked up at something Joly said; his face cracked into a grin that lit up his entire face, the corners of his eyes crinkling wickedly. 

At which point Grantaire’s fingers abandoned the pencil in favour of the bottle, and then Enjolras was introduced to fresh torture – the sight of Grantaire swallowing, lips stretched sinfully round the bottle neck - a fresh image to commit to memory. Enjolras averted his gaze, shuffling his papers, and when he glanced back the bottle was back on the table and the pencil back in Grantaire’s hand.

It was that same bottle that caught Enjolras’s attention after he closed his front door for the final time having bid adieu to Courfeyrac and Combeferre. The dining table stood empty, the green glass decanter the only sign that anyone had been there at all. Enjolras considered the item, no specific thought in mind, only a flash of images; Grantaire laughing, head tipped back. Grantaire’s fingers, twirling his pencil, or dragging through his hair, or tapping a syncopated rhythm against the glass, or toying with the rim. Grantaire’s fingers wrapped purposefully around the bottle neck.

Thinking back, there was no coherent thought process, no specific moment of decision. Enjolras just grabbed the offensive bottle that Grantaire had teased with his mouth and his hands, and headed for his bedroom.

The lube was out on the side already, left over from where Enjolras had fingered himself earlier, kneeling with his arse high in the air, reaching behind him as his pillow swallowed up his moans and sighs. Enjolras set the bottle down beside it, brain still not entirely working with a cohesive linear train of thought, but more than on board with the vague intent. 

First things first; he shucked off his trousers and boxers all in one go before climbing onto the bed. Back on his knees with slicked fingers, he quickly worked himself open, stretching himself because a bottle neck would be, well… it would be different. It would be an experience. It was… it was… probably something he shouldn’t think about too much. Because it was Grantaire’s bottle; Grantaire’s fingers had clutched that bottle, his _mouth_ had been on that bottle. But fuck, Enjolras was so turned on right now. 

He forced himself to take his time, to be thorough, because he definitely didn’t want to have to make a phone call to Combeferre and have to try to explain anything that he really couldn’t explain, not even to himself at this point. When he was satisfied, when he could twist three fingers without it burning, he looked back at the bottle, considering it and what it might feel like. The rim was ridged at the top, before the long smooth neck extended down about two inches. After rubbing his thumb over the rim, briefly imagining rough lips and how those might feel wrapped round his cock, Enjolras reached for more lube. 

The bottle was cold, that was Enjolras’s first impression. Cold and uncompromising. A voice in his mind – one that bore more than a passing resemblance to a certain resident cynic – commented that it was strangely appropriate. 

He was back on his knees, having briefly considered lying on his back face up; but there was something deliciously debauched about this position. On his knees, bent over, face down and arse up he could easily imagine being held down and fucked. Holding the bottle behind him, he spread his legs and nudged at his own hole. 

Enjolras might be stretched, but the bottle was without a tip and it took quite a bit of awkward manoeuvring before finally he was breached. Enjolras gasped, cheek pressed into the pillow, breathing out and forcing himself to relax as he nudged the widest part of the neck inside himself. Already his body was singing, cold shivers rippling across his neck as he adjusted to the new sensation.

Fuck. Oh fuck. 

Enjolras took a deep breath and nudged the bottle in a little further, feeling how nicely his body made way for it, welcomed it. It was a strange sensation, being filled by such an object. He’d had no expectations as to what this might be like, fucking himself with a glass object that had no business being used in such a manner. He whined as he pulled it back a little before pressing in further. 

Eyes scrunched shut, Enjolras’s brain kicked in, supplying him with a wealth of images. _It was Grantaire holding the bottle, having ordered Enjolras to strip. He had observed Enjolras staring at him and decided to teach him a lesson by telling him to get on his knees. Perhaps he had rimmed Enjolras in preparation, fucking him with his tongue_. 

Enjolras cried out, beginning to move the bottle in gentle motions, in and out. His cock hung heavy between his legs and he dropped one arm to take himself in hand, fisting his cock to match the movements of the bottle. _Grantaire was pushing the bottle in and out of him, teasing him, telling him to spread his legs wider, getting Enjolras ready for his cock because that was all Enjolras was good for when he was like this_. With a drawn out moan, Enjolras whimpered Grantaire’s name.

“Enjolras?!”

Hang on. That never happened. There was never an answering voice.

Enjolras’s eyes flew open, hands stilling, even though the rest of his body was desperate for him to continue.

Grantaire was there. Holy fucking shit he was right there, staring at Enjolras wide-eyed and open mouthed. All Enjolras could do was exhale because there was absolutely no way this was real. It was clearly a hallucination brought on by… by something.

\----

Grantaire was trying to remember the name of that equation – the equation that Combeferre had explained was the reason why you only remembered important things you had forgotten once you’d gotten a certain distance away. He hadn’t quite been at his front door when he realised that his phone wasn’t in his pocket. Only then did he recall taking it out of his pocket and placing it on the side in Enjolras’s kitchen, though fuck only knows why. Why had he taken his phone out in Enjolras’s kitchen? And why had he not stuck the damn thing back in his pocket – not that it mattered because whatever the reason behind it the fact remained his phone was not in his pocket and he hadn’t realised because there was some sort of science behind it which meant he could only remember once he was nearly home.

Turning the air blue and hoping Enjolras hadn’t gone to bed just yet, that perhaps Courfeyrac had dallied a little longer, long enough for Grantaire’s return to not be a Massive Inconvenience, he jogged back towards Enjolras’s flat. 

In a moment he was up the stairs and opening the front door, because if Enjolras had gone to bed already then the door would be locked and the lights would be out. The handle turned easily and the lights were still on so Grantaire called out, striding across the empty living room and heading towards the kitchen. He half expected to find Enjolras in there, perhaps washing up or making a last cup of tea. But the kitchen was empty apart from his phone lying innocently on the counter. He picked the bloody thing up and tucked it safely into his coat which was when he heard his name.

For a moment he thought he’d imagined it. His head snapped in the direction of the sound. He called out Enjolras’s name again, caution colouring his tone, though he was apparently not thinking clearly at all whatsoever because why on earth would you open a bedroom door after hearing moans and breathless whimpers, even if one’s name was part of that ensemble. He should have just run out of the door and all the way back to his own apartments and pretended he hadn’t heard Enjolras, of all people…

Holy shit.

Holy fucking shit. Enjolras was an absolute sight to be seen. He was flushed, breathing hard, moaning obscenely and the cause of those moans was… really?  
Something short circuited in his brain because there was absolutely no way on this planet Enjolras was fucking himself with Grantaire’s bottle.

\----

Enjolras’s heart had actually stopped beating. He was clearly dead. This was all a bad dream. It absolutely wasn’t real. Which was why he said Grantaire’s name again, more a breathy moan than what it should have been – a question? An accusation? If this Grantaire was the real Grantaire what the fuck was he doing in Enjolras’s bedroom?!

Easing the bottle out of himself, unable to hold back the groan such an action produced, he straightened up because let no one accuse Enjolras of cowardice. He faced Grantaire with his head held high, a challenge in the jut of his chin. Let Grantaire scoff, let him smirk or pass some clever comment. Let him do as he would, Enjolras would bear it all.

Though what he hadn’t counted on was Grantaire striding over to him, taking Enjolras’s face in his hands, calloused fingers brushing his cheeks, and seizing Enjolras’s mouth, claiming it for his own. Better than any of Enjolras’s fantasies because now there was taste – a hint of oaky red wine and the peppermint chewing gum Grantaire was using in lieu of smoking. There was the brush of stubble against his chin, the huff of warm breath, and Enjolras relinquished his grasp on the bottle in favour of running his hands up Grantaire’s arms. 

There were words in between kisses, murmured questions and consent given from both sides, though perhaps neither was entirely sure how they got into this situation only that they were very happy they were both here. Grantaire shed his coat with ease and then had to pause so that Enjolras could lift his shirt over his head. Then there was more fumbling as they desperately tried to undo Grantaire’s fly. Once his jeans hit the bedroom floor, he joined Enjolras on the bed, ignoring the clunk of the wine bottle hitting the floor.

Enjolras appeared to be trying to claw his way into Grantaire’s skin, biting savagely at his lower lip before whispering just what he wanted from this encounter. He indicated the bottle of lube, retrieved a condom from the bedside drawer and pressed both into Grantaire’s shaking hands.

“Fuck me,” he urged. There were other words, too. Please and yes and fuck and oh shit as Enjolras submitted beneath Grantaire’s touch, turning himself over and presenting himself, his hole red and glistening with lube. Grantaire crooked two slick fingers between Enjolras’s cheeks, teasing and pressing the already stretched muscle there, finding it sensitive and twitching beneath his attention. 

Grantaire couldn’t get the image out of his mind of Enjolras bearing down on his bottle, taking it inside him, the scrunch of his nose and the high pitched whine. And now he was treated to the sight of Enjolras pushing back, begging and moaning as Grantaire nudged his tip to Enjolras’s entrance.

Neither was sure this was real. Both were half convinced they had suffered blows to the head. Both had dreamed and fantasised and been convinced of the impossibility of this for so long and yet here they were; Enjolras on his knees begging to be fucked, while Grantaire oh-so-slowly pushed inside him.

Of course it was better than the bottle. Why Grantaire felt the need to ask that question was entirely beyond Enjolras and, really, it sort of brought him back to himself. Now that the spell was broken, Enjolras half gasped a laugh as reality returned. He swore, looking over his shoulder and smirking because Grantaire looked rather dazed to find himself in his current predicament. He rolled his hips, fucking himself back on Grantaire’s cock which was filling him up so perfectly, inviting the man to fucking well move already, because Enjolras was damned if he was going to do all the hard work himself.

Soon they found a rhythm, Grantaire’s hands bruising shapes into Enjolras’s hips and shoulders as flesh slapped together. Now, when Enjolras gasped out Grantaire’s name, there was an answering moan and it was pure bliss. Grantaire spoke Enjolras’s name like a prayer, before sucking marks along the man’s shoulders, licking up his spine and then biting the soft flesh of his shoulder.

Enjolras came first. Sensitive and overstimulated, his whole body was burning in the best possible way as he took himself in his hand. He spilled over the sheets with a shout while Grantaire continued to fuck him, following behind not long after and then collapsing down on the bed beside him.

There weren’t any words, which was an unusual state of affairs for both of them. Enjolras turned to look Grantaire in the face before sharing a soft, almost chaste kiss. He was sore and sated and just wanted to sleep, but he needed Grantaire to understand, he wanted Grantaire to stay. 

Grantaire’s eyes were still wide. They were still hazy, more with confusion now than with lust, but he returned Enjolras’s kiss and seemed in no mood to leave any time soon. All the same, Enjolras made him promise to stay. They would talk about it but not now. Sleep now, talk later. Then they could get their questions asked and give their answers, once their brains weren’t so foggy with sex and sleep. Though as Enjolras’s breath evened out, safely ensconced in Grantaire’s arms, he wasn’t sure he really cared how the man of his fantasies had materialised as flesh and blood in his bedroom, only that he was very glad that he did.


End file.
